Читать книгу The Desert King's Virgin Bride - Шэрон Кендрик, Sharon Kendrick - Страница 9

‘IT WILL not be as you imagine it to be. And people will treat you differently there. Come back to me if ever you are in trouble, Sorrel.’

Those remembered words echoed in Sorrel’s ears—the very last words that Malik had spoken to her just before the door of the dark limousine had closed and shut her off from him.

For ever?

Now she was just being ridiculous! Of course she was going to see him again—and she hadn’t come all the way to England and fundamentally changed her life around simply to spend her time thinking about Malik, had she?

The problem was that it was difficult not to think about him, not to keep comparing her new life in England, which was so different from the way she’d lived in Kharastan. After the enclosed world of an English boarding school and her cloistered life at court, for the first time in her life she was tasting freedom.

It was just that freedom seemed to come with a price…

Recognising that she was lucky to have the funds to do so—she’d begun looking around for somewhere to rent. She had rejected London—on the grounds that it was too big and too busy, and it would probably swallow her up and spit her out again—but she didn’t want to sink into obscurity in some tiny little English village.

In the end she’d chosen Brighton, because it was a bustling and beautiful seaside town, and she recalled spending a wonderful holiday there when she’d been a little girl.

She had found an apartment on the seafront—with huge floor-to-ceiling windows which let the most amazing light flood in. It was one of several owned by Julian de Havilland, a very successful local artist, who only let the rooms out to people who had ‘good vibes’. Sorrel suspected that the stark and bare layout of the apartment, with only the barest minimum of furniture, would not be everyone’s cup of tea—but it was by far and away the nicest one she had looked at.

‘I’ll take it!’ she said, her attention caught by the sunlight dancing on the sea outside the vast windows.

‘There’s no curtains, I’m afraid,’ he said, raking hands which were stained with Indian ink through an already tousled mane of hair.

‘Who needs curtains?’ said Sorrel lightly, thinking that she would undress in the bathroom, which featured an enormous great boat of a bath and a noisy cistern.

‘Are you working in Brighton?’ he asked curiously, watching as she ran her fingertips along the edge of the marble fireplace.

‘No, I haven’t got a job,’ she said, and then, seeing the heightened curiosity on his face and not wanting to come over as some little rich-girl—which she wasn’t—and realising that only by working was she going to get to know people, she gave him a bright smile. ‘Not yet, anyway. I’m going to have to start looking.’

‘What do you do?’

Ah. That was the question. What did she do? Sorrel screwed her face up and came up with her one most marketable asset. ‘I can speak French. And German.’

‘Fluently?’

‘Oh, yes.’ She was determined to play down her knowledge of Kharastani. Sorrel had already decided that she wasn’t going to publicise her background—mainly because it wasn’t fair to Malik. He was powerful, and he was a king, and while some people might actually think she was fantasising about even knowing him she must never forget that others might wish to make his acquaintance for all kinds of reasons. And she could never presume on their friendship by daring to make introductions to him.

Friendship?

Some friendship!

He hadn’t bothered replying to her e-mails and neither had he once picked up the telephone, or in any way acknowledged the couple of jaunty postcards she had sent, with a deliberately cheerful tone—as if she was having the most wonderful time in the world with her newly acquired freedom. As if she wasn’t missing him and her life in the exotic and complex country which was Kharastan. But she did.

She missed it all like mad—the apricot-soft dawns and the fiery sunsets, the stark beauty of the desert and the warm, scented air of the palace gardens. And didn’t she miss her exceptionally privileged lifestyle there, if she was being completely honest? Hadn’t she become rather too accustomed to servants who acceded to her every whim? To having her clothes laundered and her meals cooked and served to her? Why, by the time she had left Kharastan she had actually had her own aide!

Most of all she missed Malik. The sight of his beautiful mocking face at state banquets—the sound of his rich, resonant voice as he made a speech to welcome visiting dignitaries. She missed the expectation of bumping into him. The thought that at any moment he might suddenly appear—sweeping through the wide, marbled palace corridors with his silken robes swishing and a cluster of aides scurrying in his wake, because his long stride seemed to cover so much more distance than anyone else she knew.

But didn’t that speak volumes about how hopeless her longing for him was? If she analysed the actual substance of her relationship with him, it was nothing. A few daily snatched glimpses of him and being a member of an adoring audience as he delivered a speech was not a real relationship—hardly even a friendship. She sounded more like a starstruck fan than an equal. For she would never be his equal. Not now.

In the years before the bombshell had dropped that he was the true and rightful heir to the Sheikh there had been hope that he might love her back. But he never had and now he never would. Perhaps deep down Malik had always sensed the true magnitude of his destiny, and she had to accept hers. And hers was here. Now. And she must learn to adapt to this completely different way of living.

It was a shock to the system—but one that she needed if she was to achieve any degree of contentment, she decided, as she signed a cheque and handed it over to Julian.

He took it, folded it, and slid it in the back pocket of his jeans. ‘Well, if you need a job and you’re a linguist, then why don’t you try the Alternative Tourist Office?’ he questioned, and saw her puzzled look. ‘It specialises in places of interest which are off the beaten track—as well as the usual attractions—but they get loads of foreign tourists who don’t speak much English. They’ve got a crazy little office down the road on the seafront.’

‘And they’re looking for someone?’

Julian grinned. ‘They’re always looking for someone! They don’t pay great money—but the atmosphere’s pretty relaxed.’

It certainly seemed that way. The office was situated a mere shell’s throw from her apartment, sandwiched between a clothes shop and a wine bar. A few wilting plants sat on the windowsill, and there was free coffee and a pile of magazines with most of the advertisements cut out—plus music playing from a deck in one corner.

Sorrel was asked a fairly basic question in French and given the job on the spot—mornings only and every other Saturday. She would be working with Jane, who had just left university and couldn’t decide what to do, and a very good-looking male model called Charlie, who told her he was currently ‘resting’.

‘Oh, you’re always “resting”!’ accused Jane, with a giggle.

It was such a relief to be in a friendly atmosphere with people her own age that Sorrel found herself relaxing for the first time since her plane had taken off from Kumush Ay airport.

The job was also so easy that she felt she could have done it with her eyes shut, and when she wasn’t working she kept the plants watered and read everything there was to know about Brighton, because she was determined to do well.

And when Jane and Charlie asked she told them simply that she’d been working in the Middle East but had wanted a change—and that was the truth. It was a gentle shoe-in to the working world, yet Sorrel felt incredibly nervous—given that just a few months ago she had been rubbing shoulders with political leaders and queens. Where had that serene and unflappable Sorrel gone? She seemed to have left her behind.

She guessed that her anxiety stemmed from more than just setting out on her own in a land which was like a foreign country to her—it was as if she had to acquire a whole new identity to cope with her new life.

For a start, she had to go out and buy clothes which were suitable for her new appointment, and how strange that felt—not having to follow the strict dress-code of her adopted country which had become second nature to her.

Without her neck-to-ankle silk gowns she felt almost…exposed—even though she wasn’t, not really, and certainly not compared to everyone else. She bought a couple of floaty long skirts and a pair of jeans—but the jeans hung disturbingly low on her hips and the T-shirts she wore with both clung to her breasts in a way she was not used to.

But this is England, she reminded herself—not Kharastan.

In fact, the clothes she wore were very modest—especially considering that the weather was blisteringly hot, since England was having the kind of freak summer heat-wave which Sorrel would never have anticipated. Even though they left the front door wide open, the office was like an oven—and during the still nights when she lay in bed Sorrel found herself longing for the air-conditioned coolness of the palace at Kumush Ay.

‘Aren’t you baking, dressed like that?’ asked Jane one morning, as flung her handbag down onto one of the desks. ‘You’re not in the Middle East now, you know—and these little sundresses are much cooler!’

‘Yes, they look cooler,’ agreed Sorrel, with a slight longing in her voice as she glanced at Jane’s bare thighs. ‘But my legs are so pale. Not like yours.’

‘Didn’t you sunbathe in…Kharastan?’ asked Jane.

‘It wasn’t really encouraged,’ said Sorrel, with wry understatement.

‘Well, my tan isn’t real,’ confided Jane—and when she saw Sorrel’s blank look she burst out laughing and began rubbing her hands together. ‘Oh, yes!’ she breathed, with gleeful enthusiasm. ‘I’ve always wanted to do a real-live makeover on someone!’

It was an experience that Sorrel would never forget. First came the beauty salon—where fake tan was sprayed all over her. When she emerged, she shrieked with horror at the blotchy, muddy mess her skin presented—until she was assured that the colour would flatten out. Next she had her toenails and fingernails painted in an iridescent shade of rose-pink.

‘You’ve never had a pedicure before?’ shrieked Jane in amazement.

‘Never,’ agreed Sorrel, pushing away her nagging feeling of doubt as she tried to imagine what Malik would say if he could see her now, lying back on a leather couch as if she was awaiting a medical examination, while the nail polish dried. He probably wouldn’t even deign to comment. She had taken her chosen path and was now a Western woman who could do exactly as she pleased—no longer under his protection or control. And he had moved on, too, eradicating her from his life completely—which presumably was why he hadn’t even had the courtesy to reply to her.

Hot tears stung at her eyes and she blinked them away, willing it not to hurt—not wanting it to hurt.

But it did hurt—and Sorrel despised herself for feeling a pain that had no justification in reality. Because nothing had gone on between her and Malik—absolutely nothing—except within the fertile planes of her imagination. Not a nod or a glance, nor a snatched look—and certainly never a kiss or even a touch. Sorrel swallowed. That was true. Unless you counted the times when as a child she had been learning to ride and he had first lifted her onto a horse and gently put her feet into the stirrups, Malik had never even touched her!

Even at the weddings of his two half-brothers—when the opportunity had been there—he had not danced with her. Much of the time he had been busy—like her—with the sheer mechanics of organising two such fancy functions, but when there had been a lull…No. She frowned in recall.

He had not actually danced with anyone—even though some of the more blatant female guests had been circling him as she had sometimes seen vultures circle a fallen leopard amid the blazing waste of desert sands.

So why was she allowing him to clog up her thoughts? And why was she continuing to dream this dream, which should have been growing more distant by the day—not featuring in glorious Technicolor in her mind.

It was time to move on, and there were practical ways she could do that. She’d found the apartment and the job—maybe it was time to stop standing on the sidelines of life in her homeland and to embrace the culture as would any other single young woman of twenty-five.

She glanced up at Jane, who was working her way through sample bottles of moisturiser. ‘Could we go shopping after work?’

‘Can we?’ Jane giggled. ‘I thought you’d never ask!’

Sorrel had never really hit the shops with a credit card before—her parents had not been big spenders, and had actively discouraged what they’d called the feeding frenzy of consumer spending. After their death it had simply not occurred to her to shop. While she’d been at the palace all her clothes had been paid for by the Sheikh—and she had discovered that a very generous salary had been paid into her bank account during those years.

So why shouldn’t she splurge a bit? Chainstore dresses weren’t exactly going to break the bank, were they?

And Jane was like a child who had been let loose in a dressing-up box.

‘Try this!’

‘No! I can’t—scarlet is not my colour,’ protested Sorrel.

‘How do you know until you’ve tried it?’

How indeed? To Sorrel’s surprise, Jane was right—not only did scarlet suit her, but the little cotton sundress looked rather good when teamed with some clashing orange beads. It was the last thing she would have worn in Kharastan—but surely that was a good thing? New life, she reminded herself. New woman.

In the end she bought four dresses, a denim mini-skirt, and some cool tops—some with teeny spaghetti straps and others with no straps at all—and a pair of vertiginous wedge sandals which made her legs look almost indecently long.

‘You’ll get a chance to show them off tonight,’ said Jane.

Sorrel blinked. Had she missed something? ‘What’s happening tonight?’ she asked.

‘You are,’ said Jane firmly. ‘I’m not asking any questions, since you obviously don’t want to talk about it, but I can tell just by looking at you that you’re trying to get over some bloke—the only way to do that is to find another one, and that’s exactly what we’re going to do!’

Sorrel’s first impulse was to recoil in horror at the very suggestion. To protest that finding a man was the last thing on her mind—until she began to worry that maybe there was something wrong with her. There must be—if she was objecting so strongly. In twenty-five years she had never had a boyfriend—never even kissed a man—and how sad was that? But there were some things you didn’t confide—and, much as she liked Jane, that was one of them.

She needed to break the cycle of emotional dependence on the man whose affection for her was based on his obligation as her guardian.

Swallowing down her panic, she nodded. ‘Where will we go?’

‘The wine bar. Tonight—at seven.’

Sorrel got ready, feeling mixed up and a fraud—but knowing that she should be experiencing the sense of excitement she suspected most other women her own age would be feeling if they were wearing brand-new clothes to go for a carefree night out on a hot summer evening. But she felt as if she was outside her own body, looking at herself with the detached eye of an interested observer instead of being the participant.

Part of her was aware that the itsy-bitsy floaty blue dress looked good, and that her blonde hair had never looked so pale or so shiny as it cascaded down her back to her waist. And that her tanned brown legs did look so flattering—especially when she wore them with open-toe sandals which showed off her dazzling pedicure.

There was an extraordinary moment when she walked into the crowded wine bar and every head turned in her direction. She looked behind her—thinking that someone famous must have followed her in. But, no, they were looking at her.

‘Why is everyone staring?’ she hissed at Jane, rubbing her finger underneath first one eye and then the other—in case her supposedly smudge-proof mascara hadn’t lived up to the extravagant claims made on the packet.

‘Oh, come on!’ reprimanded her friend acidly. ‘You look a knockout—that’s why. Charlie—get Sorrel a drink, will you?’

Sorrel accepted the glass of white wine Charlie pushed into her hand and took a sip. And here was another problem. Alcohol was not taken freely in Kharastan—although it was always provided in the palace for foreign dignitaries. But Sorrel had only ever tasted champagne at the royal weddings of Xavier and Giovanni—Malik’s two half-brothers—and she hadn’t been mad about it. It had made her feel a bit too dreamy on two dangerously romantic occasions, and she had looked up and found Malik glaring at her and had hastily put the glass down.

Well, not any more! Why shouldn’t she have a drink like any other person in the civilised world? It wasn’t as if she was knocking it back—not like some of Jane’s friends.

But a couple of large glasses of rough wine bar plonk was having a profound effect on a someone who wasn’t used to drinking and who hadn’t eaten anything since lunchtime. The wine bar had started to get hot and stuffy, with smoke drifting in from outside, where all the smokers were gathered, and Sorrel felt herself swaying slightly.

‘You okay?’ questioned Jane.

‘I need to eat something,’ said Sorrel woozily.

‘Yeah. Me, too. Tell you what—let’s get a curry and take it back to your place.’

It seemed churlish to object—especially when Jane had gone out of her way to help her buy clothes—and Sorrel didn’t even protest when several of the others they’d been talking to decided to tag along. They seemed a nice, if slightly noisy bunch, and she was going to have to learn about entertaining sooner or later, wasn’t she?

In the end, twelve people stumbled into her beautiful flat and took silver cartons of curry into the kitchen—ladling out heaps of yellow rice and chicken in shiny sauces and great wodges of bread. There weren’t enough plates to go round, so some people were eating out of cereal dishes and pouring wine into mugs. After they’d eaten someone found a non-stop music station on the radio—and what Sorrel would have loosely described as dancing began.

Jane was swaying with her arms locked around someone whose name Sorrel thought was Scott, though she couldn’t be sure, and then another couple flopped down onto one of the sofas and began kissing quite openly. Sorrel started wishing that everyone would leave so that she could go to bed. And what was that sickly sweet smell of the smoke drifting in from the balcony when she had most definitely said that there was to be no smoking?

It should have been wonderful—especially as outside the uncurtained windows the moon was beginning to illuminate the sky with a pale terracotta sheen. But it was the opposite of wonderful—particularly when Scott stumbled up to Sorrel and tried to pull her into his arms.

‘Come and dance with me,’ he mumbled.

‘I can’t…Scott, will you please let go? I happen to be holding a plate of curry—’ And then the doorbell rang, and Sorrel felt a mixture of relief and alarm at its piercing shrill—relief because it meant that she could extricate herself from Scott’s arms, and alarm because she wasn’t expecting anyone. She didn’t know anyone.

Apart from the landlord!

Heart pounding, and a chilly, clammy feeling in her hands, Sorrel put the plate down and made her way out into the hall. When she pulled the door open her knees threatened to give way.

Because there—with a small phalanx of bodyguards standing clustered around him—stood the formidable and disapproving figure of Malik.